Hornet's Nest (10 page)

Solomon Cahoon was Jewish, and the Old Testament factored into his mother’s choice of names for her firstborn male child. Her son would be a king who would make wise decisions, such as the one this Friday, when he had informed his police chief that she would hold a press conference to let citizens know that the serial killings in Charlotte were homosexual and of no threat to normal men visiting the Queen City on business. Northside Baptist Church would be holding a prayer vigil for victims’ families and the souls of those killed. Police were following very good leads.

“Just a reassurance thing,” Cahoon had relayed to the chief over the phone.

Hammer and her six deputy chiefs, along with people from strategic planning and crime analysis, were discussing this latest commandment delivered from on high. Wren Dozier, deputy chief of administration, was especially incensed. He was forty with delicate features and a soft mouth. Unmarried, he lived in a section of Fourth Ward where Tommy Axel and others had condominiums with dusky rose doors. Dozier had known he would never be promoted beyond captain. Then Hammer had come to town, a woman who rewarded people for good work. Dozier would take a bullet for her.

“What a bunch of shit,” Dozier said, as he slowly and angrily twirled his coffee mug on the table. “So what about
the other side of this, huh?” He met eyes all around. “What about the wives and kids back home? They’re supposed to think the last thing Pop did was pay for a homosexual encounter out on some city street somewhere?”

“There’s no evidence to support such a thing,” West said, and she was unhappy, too. “You can’t say something like this.” She stared at Hammer.

The chief and Cahoon could agree on nothing, and she knew he was going to have her fired. It was all a matter of time and would not be a first, either. At her level, it was all politics. The city got a new mayor, who brought along his own chief, which was what had happened to her in Atlanta and would have in Chicago had she not left. She really could not afford to get reshuffled again. Each city would get only smaller, until one fine day she ended up right where she’d started, in the economically languishing one-horse town of Little Rock.

“Of course I will not get up in front of reporters and spread such crap,” the chief said. “I won’t.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to remind the public that we are following leads and are on the case,” said the public information officer.

“What leads?” said West, who headed investigations, and should be privy to such things.

“If we get any, we’ll follow them,” said Hammer. “That’s the point.”

“You can’t say that, either,” worried the PIO. “We have to leave out the
if we get any
part of . . .”

Hammer impatiently cut her off. “Of course, of course. That goes without saying. I didn’t mean literally. Enough of this. Let’s move on. Here’s what we’re going to do. A press release.” She regarded the PIO over reading glasses. “I want it on my desk by ten-thirty and out to the press by midafternoon so they can meet their deadlines. And I will see if I can get up with Cahoon, talk him down from this.”

This was very much like securing an audience with the Pope. Hammer’s secretary and another assistant traded phone calls with Cahoon’s people for most of the day. Finally, the meeting was barely arranged for late that afternoon,
sometime between four-fifteen and five, depending on when a gap appeared in the CEO’s impossible schedule. Hammer had no choice but to show up at the early end of this interval and hope for the best.

At four she left her police department and walked through downtown on a lovely afternoon that, before this moment, she had not noticed. She followed Trade to Tryon to the corporate center, with its eternal torch and sculptures. Inside a huge lobby of polished stone, she walked briskly, her heels clicking over marble as she passed rich wood paneling and famous fresco paintings depicting the Shingon philosophy of chaos, creativity, making, and building. She nodded at one of the guards, who nodded back and tipped his cap. He liked that lady chief and had always thought she walked like she knew how, and she was nice and didn’t disrespect anyone, whether they were a real cop or not.

Hammer boarded a crowded elevator and was the last to get off at the top of the crown, which at this dizzying level, really was aluminum pipes. Hammer had visited Cahoon before. Rarely a month went by that he didn’t summon her to his suite of mahogany and glass overlooking his city. As was true of Hampton Court Palace, visitors were required to pass through many outer layers and courts to get to the king. Should a crazed gunman decide to carry out his mission, by the time he reached the throne many secretaries and assistants might be dead, but Cahoon, quite likely, would not have heard the noise.

Several outer offices later, Hammer entered the one occupied by the executive secretary, Mrs. Mullis-Mundi, also known as M&M by those who did not like her, which was virtually all. She was candy-coated, but with nuts. She would melt in the mouth and break teeth. Hammer frankly had no use for this perky young thing who had gotten married and kept her name while appropriating that of her husband, Joe Mundi. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi was bulimic, and had breast implants and long dyed blond hair. She wore size four Anne Klein. Her cologne was Escada. She worked out daily in Gold’s Gym. She did not wear slacks, and was simply biding time before she sued for sexual harassment.

“Judy, great to see you.” The executive secretary stood and offered her hand with the same lilting style that Hammer had observed in devout bowlers. “Let me see how he’s doing.”

A half hour later, Hammer remained seated on a buttery-soft ivory leather couch. She was reviewing statistics, memos, and attending to the armies marching restlessly inside her briefcase. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi never got off the phone or grew tired of it. She took one earring off, then the other, then rotated the phone again to a hand less weary, as if to emphasize the painful demands of her career. Often she looked at her large scratch-proof Rado watch, and sighed, flipping her hair. She was about to die to smoke one of her skinny menthol cigarettes that had flowers around the filter.

Cahoon was able at last to fit the chief in at precisely thirteen minutes past the hour. As usual his day had been long, with far too much in it, and all insisting that they could speak to no one but him. In truth he had never been in a hurry to let Hammer into his office, regardless of the minor fact that it was he, versus her, who had demanded a meeting. She was ornery and opinionated and had treated him like a bad dog the first time they’d met. As a result he was one without fail and consistently, when dealing with her. One of these days he would send her down the road and bring in a progressive man, the sort who snapped open a briefcase with the
Wall Street Journal
and a Browning Hi-Power inside. Now, that was Cahoon’s idea of a chief, someone who knew the market, would shoot to kill, and showed a little respect to leaders of the community.

Hammer’s first thought whenever she was face to face with the ruler of the city was that he had made his fortune on a chicken farm and had attributed his history to someone else by another name. Frank Purdue, she almost believed, was an alias. Holly Farms was a front. Solomon Cahoon had made his millions off plump breasts and thighs. He had gotten rich off fryers and fat roasters and their little thermometers that popped up at precisely the right time when things were heating up. Clearly, Cahoon had dovetailed these experiences and resources into banking. He had been wise
enough to realize that his past might pose a credibility problem for one securing a mortgage through USBank, if this person happened to see the CEO smiling on chicken parts at Harris-Teeter. Hammer couldn’t blame him for coming up with an alias or two, if this was what he had in fact done.

His desk was burled maple, not old but magnificent, and much more expansive than the ninety-six inches of wood veneer, including a return, that the city furnished her. Cahoon was creaking in an apple green English leather chair with brass studs and the same burled armrests, talking on the phone, looking out spotless glass and beyond aluminum pipes. She sat across from him and was on hold again. It really didn’t bother her all that much anymore, for Hammer could transport herself just about anywhere. She could solve problems, make decisions, come up with lists of matters to be investigated, and deliberate what would be good for dinner and who should cook it.

To her, Cahoon always looked naked from the neck up. His hair was a bristly silver fringe he wore like a crown. Cropped short, it stood up straight in different lengths and was shaped like a crescent moon in back. He was perpetually tan and wrinkled from his passion for sailboats, and he was vital and distinguished in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and Fendi silk tie filled with gold and deep red clocks.

“Sol,” she politely greeted him, when he eventually hung up the phone.

“Judy, thanks so much for fitting me in,” he said in his soft Southern voice. “So what are we going to do about these gay bashings, these queer killin’s? These fag-fisher-queens trolling in our city? You understand the false impression all of it is giving to other corporations and companies thinking of relocating here? Not to mention what it does to business in town as usual.”

“Fag-fisher-queens,”
Hammer slowly, thoughtfully repeated.
“Trolling.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “You want some Perrier or something?”

She shook her head, and measured her words. “Gay
bashings. Queer killings. This came from where?” She was not on his same planet, and that was her choice.

“Oh come on.” He leaned forward, propping elbows on his rich desk. “We all know what this is about. Men come to our city. They cut loose, give in to their perversion, think no one will be the wiser. Well, the angel of death for these sickos is swooping in.” He nodded deeply. “Truth, justice, and the American way. God putting his foot down.”

“Synonymous,” she said.

“Huh?” He frowned in confusion.

“All are synonymous?” she said. “Truth. Justice. American way. God putting his foot down.”

“You bet, honey.” He smiled.

“Sol, don’t call me that.” She jabbed her finger the same way she did when making points while West was driving her around the city. “Don’t. Not ever.”

He settled back in his leather chair and laughed, entertained by this lady. What a trip. Thank God she had a husband to set her straight and put her where she belonged. Cahoon was willing to bet that Hammer’s man called her honey and she waited for it, apron tied in back, like Heidi, Cahoon’s first and only wife. Saturday mornings, Heidi served him breakfast in bed, providing he was in town. She continued this even now, after so many faithful years, although the effect wasn’t quite the same. What happened to the female body after it turned thirty? Men were ready and willing until death. They sat tall in the saddle and were unaffected by gravity and this was why it wasn’t out of the question for the male to seek out younger females eventually.

“You understand the definition of honey?” Hammer started in on this again. “A food for larvae. To be flattering or obsequious. Cajolery. What you say to get your socks darned and buttons sewn on. Christ, why did I come to this city?” She shook her head, not kidding.

“Atlanta wasn’t much better,” he reminded her. “Certainly not Chicago, or it wouldn’t have been for long.”

“True, true.”

“What about your press conference?” He moved on to more important matters. “I passed along a very appropriate
suggestion. And what?” He shrugged thin shoulders. “Where’s my press conference? Was it so much for me to ask? This building is a beacon bringing business to Charlotte-Mecklenburg. We need to disseminate positive information, such as our hundred and five percent clearance rate for all violent crimes last year . . .”

She interrupted him, because she couldn’t let this pass. “Sol, this is not financial smoke and mirrors. You cannot manipulate the bottom line on paper and in computers and get everyone to accept it. We’re talking tangibles. Rapes, robberies, B&E’s, homicides, with real flesh and blood victims. You’re asking me to convince citizens that we cleared more cases than we had last year?”

“Old cases were solved, that’s why the numbers . . .” he started to repeat what he had been told.

Hammer was shaking her head, and Cahoon’s infamous impatience was heating up. This lady was the only one who dared talk to him in this fashion, if he didn’t include his wife and children.

“What old cases?” Hammer said. “And going back how far? You know what this is like? It’s like someone asking me how much I make as chief of police and I say a million dollars because I’m going back ten years.”

“Apples and oranges.”

“No, no, Sol.” She was shaking her head more vigorously. “No apples and oranges here. Oh no. This is fertilizer.”

“Judy.” He pointed a bent finger at her. “What about the conventions that decide not to come here because of this . . . ?”

“Oh for God’s sake.” She waved him off and stood. “Conventions don’t decide anything, people do, and I can’t hear any more of this. Just let me handle things, you mind? That’s what I’m paid to do. And I’m not going to spread a lot of crap. You’ll have to get someone else to do it.” She started walking out of his office with its view. “A hundred and five percent.” She raised her hands in exasperation. “And I’d watch out for your secretary, by the way.”

“What does she have to do with this?” Cahoon was most
confused, which was fairly normal after a visit with Hammer.

“I know the type,” Hammer warned. “How much does she want?”